


A Wing and a Prayer

by insaneshadowfangirl, Sora_Tayuya



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Reborntale, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Angel Sans, Black Comedy, Broken Bones, Demon Papyrus, Female Frisk, Frisk is not impressed, Gen, Genocide Frisk, It starts out a bit heavy but there will be fluff and funnys, Jealous Papyrus, Male Chara, Papyrus Remembers Resets, Sans Needs A Hug, Sans is the only angel in the entire underground, Shy Sans, Torture, Touch-Starved, rebornfell, this is going to get ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8615191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insaneshadowfangirl/pseuds/insaneshadowfangirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sora_Tayuya/pseuds/Sora_Tayuya
Summary: "What do you mean I need an angel to get through the barrier!?" They shout at the book in front of them, throwing their hands in the air. 
The book, being a book, remains silent.
The human screams in frustration, grabbing a knife off the table. Fine. If they need an angel, they'll  get  one, even if they have to kill off each and every monster in the Underground.
Or, in which Frisk kills all the monsters in Underfell in search of an angel and shenanigans ensue.





	1. Rise

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing with sooooora

_Sans stepped back onto his fractured leg, wincing in pain. “Come on, I'll make it quick~” the human said, her voice soft and light. The large plastic knife in her hand was covered in dust. He was so stupid, Boss was right. He couldn't handle one measly little human child. Couldn't do anything right. Why did he even try?_

_Letting his face turn to the ground, he saw the snow turn to red in droplets._

_He was…bleeding? A hand reached up to feel his head, pounding with adrenaline. It came back red with raw magic._

_Tears._

_Oh. He was crying._

_Through the haze of disappointment and regrets he registered the pounding ache of a headache, the pain from his injured leg and tired body. He was so tired, so tired of being a disappointment. A bother. A nuisance. Why couldn’t he just…stop for a little while? Just…stop._

_So he did._

WHPPP

_His eyes flew open (when had they closed?) as his vision shuttered from the impact of the slice across his sternum. More red streamed from his bones as he stood there dumbly, unable to grasp what just occurred._

_He turned his face numbly to the human child before him, standing triumphantly, maniacal grin in place._

_Although he had failed, failed his job, failed his boss, failed the monsters of the underground…failed his brother…he didn’t feel like a failure._

_For the first time in years, Sans the Skeleton felt…_

_…relieved._

_As his body collapsed to its knees on the ground, dusting lightly around the edges and with greater speed with each passing minute, all Sans felt was a slight giddiness. His chest, burdened as it was with his lifeblood flowing from the gash resting there, felt as light as air._

_He was going to die. For once…he wouldn’t be a burden any longer._

_Before his body crumbled to a red-stained pile of dust, the human child was treated to the rarest of sights: a heartfelt, thankful smile creasing the edges of his closed eyesockets, displaying his sharp teeth with only the kindest of emotions on his pale face._

*******

The first thing he notices is the cold. It sinks into him, invading his bones and causing him to shiver. He’s wet, too, and afraid. Something is going to hurt him-- He wants-- He wants-- what _does_ he want?

He sits up, the sodden folds of his clothing bunching up at his joints. He hurts, everywhere, a dull ache filling his soul. He looks around, seeing white and green (snow, trees, his mind whispers to him).

With a soft whine of discomfort, he pulls his coat off. His wings are trapped under it, bunched up tightly, and he doesn't know why. Just that it hurts. He can see nicks and scratches and breaks in his arm bones, but can't quite recall how he'd gotten them.

He can't recall much of anything, really. Just lonesomeness... and fear.

And... Sans. Yes, Sans. That is his name, right? And he is a... he’s an... an angel.

Right.

And he feels...light. Like he could just take off from the ground and fly. So he supposes it isn't surprising that he has wings. They are soft. And warm. And nice.

Running his hand along one, he expects it to feel pleasant. But while the feathers under his fingers are silky and soft, the feeling leaves a strange emptiness inside of him. He suddenly finds himself craving the touch of another, and wonders what it would feel like to have another’s hands run along his wings.

He climbs to his feet carefully, draping his jacket over his back. He keeps it loose so it won’t hurt and constrict his poor wings any further, but it is far too cold to leave it off entirely. There is a bridge nearby so he heads in that direction. He might meet some nice people. He'd love to make some friends; maybe then he wouldn't feel so lonely.

A few steps towards the gap and the gated bridge there and Sans realizes that his leg really hurts. Stopping for a moment, he hikes up his shorts’ leg, staring down at the large crack running diagonally across his femur.   
  
How did that happen?

Running his hand carefully over the fracture, he winces lightly at the tender bones. Was there an accident? Had he fallen and hurt his leg somehow? That might explain why he couldn’t...quite…

He moves his hands around his skull, feeling for tenderness or sore areas. There were cracks, but no red came back on his fingers upon initial inspection.

Still...he could have hit his head somehow. That is the only thing he can think of to explain this memory loss.

But the leg injury...was it really an accident?

He doesn't know; he can't fathom a guess with no knowledge of the past and no witnesses around. Gathering his jacket a bit closer, he crosses the short bridge on unsteady legs, wincing every other step.

Passing a wooden structure he takes note of the handwritten sign. It is inane rambling, something about a papyrus, whatever that is. The building is sturdy-looking, at least, and he briefly considers the idea of resting there. Rubbing his leg again he decides he can muster on a bit longer; hopefully he can locate a town or a small village soon.

The thought of flying crosses his mind as well, but if he has an unknown head injury it might not be a smart thing to do. Something tells him it might be better to stay close to the ground for now, at least until he gets a better idea of his surroundings. Thus it is slow going. He passes various puzzles and traps, feeling vague interest as he looks over them. Most of them appear to already be solved, granting him easier access forward. He comes across a small bridge after a slippery ice-puzzle, but as he moves to step on it, the small skeleton loses his balance and slides down the side of the hill, landing in a pile of snow below the ledge.

A peculiar sight meets him: an odd frozen lump of snow that, strangely enough, has his name carved sloppily into it. Beside it is a tiny snow statue, equally frozen, depicting a small skeleton wearing a too-large scarf and jacket.

He frowns slightly, feeling that same lonely ache from before, as though he is forgetting something vitally important.

Snow isn't going to give him any answers. But...seeing his own name depicted beside a statue gives him pause. Perhaps it was built by himself?

Or maybe not: taking a more studious eye to it, he doesn’t think he would have had the patience to make something that didn’t collapse into...well, a pile of snow, he thinks with an odd quiver in his chest, looking back at the sorry looking slump that bears his name.

The nondescript snow lump does look like the amount of effort he would manage. Turning his head to look again at the sculpted form beside it, he wonders who built that snow person.

Whoever it was must know him, he reasons, trudging back towards the ice puzzle with new resolve. Somebody knows him. He just has to figure out who.

And hopefully they are friendly. At least, he figures, people who play in the snow together must be on good terms with one another. Right?

It takes longer than he would’ve liked before he is able to make it back up to the sliding puzzle, but once there, he is much more careful navigating it, eventually finding himself on the other side of the dense growth of trees with a pile of snow on his head. He giggles softly as it collapses with a _poof_ noise.

His walk is mostly uninterrupted, and though he sees the snow indicates an abundance of footprints, he does not run across a single person.

Eventually he sees buildings in the distance, an array of warm woody colors.

A warm feeling of relief washes over him, and he smiles in spite of the lingering ache from his leg. Finally, a town.

He picks up his pace slightly, still favoring his leg, but his eagerness can’t be restrained. Where there was a town there is undoubtedly people...who could tell him what had happened. Or, at least help him with his memory problems. Though he had awoken with shorts and a thin tee shirt, the jacket could indicate he was a resident here. If he has neighbors...friends..maybe even relatives! Hopefully at least there will be one...friendly…

His thoughts slow as he enters the town, eagerly padding right into the center square where he encounters…

...no one.

The town is silent. Not a noise can be heard save his own footsteps on the deeply imprinted snow, pressed down under the weight of what could be a town’s worth of footfalls.

Sans frowns. It’s like a ghost town…

He continues his walk, seeing small piles of dust here and there and feeling a sinking sensation in his rib cage. Something is very wrong. Surely this isn't normal?

The edge of town comes and goes, and only then does he see any sign of life - a tall, dark figure in the distance.

_A person...a person!_ Ripe with excitement, the small angel quickens his pace, trying to ignore the persistent creaking of his injured leg.

_There is a person here finally someone I can talk to who might be able to tell me where everybody..._ Sans stops a few yards from the tall stranger, his thoughts slowing as the imposing figure before him registers his presence and turns.

It was a stranger - even if the way he cranes his neck to look upwards feels familiar - one seemingly made out of bone, just like him. And leather. And spikes. And...different wings.

Dark blood red, featherless and tensed, spread behind the other skeleton’s back. Almost… leathery.

Something in the back of his mind screams a warning, ‘ _danger!_ ’

He stands in place, staring up at the dark figure. Suddenly it feels like a bad place to be. This...doesn’t seem right. But...this is the only person he has seen since waking up. Even if every bone in his body is quivering under that darkening gaze, surely the other could at least point him in the right direction…

“Well. What _do_ we have here?” The other’s voice is smooth and deep, and it makes his marrow run ice cold. His tone is one of interest, of curiosity. Sans fidgets, the urge to bolt growing stronger by the moment.

“Um.” By comparison, his own voice projects like the squeak of a mouse trembling before a lion. _Don’t think like that Sans don’t think like that happy thoughts happy thoughts…_ He gulps loudly, clearing his throat. “Ex-excuse me...mister…” Harsh red eyelights focus on him, like a cobra’s stare.

_This isn’t that hard, stop it Sans!_ He clenches his hands together in front of his chest, steeling himself. _It’s just a person. Just...a really, really scary, tall person, with...a pointy tail…_ Desperate to look away from that piercing gaze, Sans lets his eyes follow the flick of the other’s tail, pointed at the end like a barb.

Sans watches it flick back and forth for a moment, mesmerized by the whip-like movements it makes. He scrunches his eyes closed in frustration. _Focus! I have to talk to him. I can’t let myself be distract_ \- He opens his eyes to a face barely a foot in front of his own, sharp claws reaching for him. He panics, backpedaling four feet in an instant. Whirling on his heels he bolts for the empty town, the mantra get away _get away get away before it gets you_ on loop in his skull. His soul’s beat pounds in his nonexistent ears and his leg aches with the effort but he _keeps running_ , even if he doesn't know why.

And then he crashes headlong into somebody else.

“Oof!” Emitting the noise with the excess of air from his non-existent lungs, he plops onto his rump into the snow. Eyes still closed from his blind run of faith, he cracks them open slowly to see the new stranger he has run into.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see-” He takes in the other’s appearance, causing him to halt his apology. Similar leathery wings, barbed tail, twitching back and forth like a live wire, unlike the cobra dance of the tall skeleton. This person is covered in grey fur, with a red tracksuit to match his wings and tail. Black hair dyed red down the middle falls partway across his face, and Sans shudders at the not-quite grin he is given as the rodent-person peers down at him over his dark sunglasses. The predator’s look.

He steps backwards unconsciously, shivering and trying to make himself look smaller. One, two, three- then his progress is halted as he bumps into another obstacle. Slowly, he turns his head to get a look, and squeaks in fear, stumbling back towards the rodent.

Covered in shaggy brown hair, this behemoth is at least four times his height and thrice as wide, with the same style of wings, the same sharpened tail, and the same dark glint in his beady eyes.

“I..I-I’m-” A hand falls lightly onto his shoulder. He whirls, dislodging the appendage but revealing a third member of the party, a prim-looking pale rabbit with narrow eyes. Unlike the other two, her wings are folded delicately on her back, slightly smaller and ashen-colored. The rabbit woman tilts her head to the right, observing him. It isn’t a kind smile.

_I’m outnumbered_. “P-please…” He looks back at the rodent.

_I’m outclassed._ “I...I just w-want to know w-where I am.” When his plea falls on deaf ears, he turns with increasing desperation towards the largest one again.

_I’m...out of my league._ “What...what’s g-going on?” He swings about to the female, finding no solace on the faces of her two companions. 

She giggles, showing sharp - far too sharp for the creature she was - teeth. “It doesn’t really matter, little one~! Because we’re going to have some fun, just the four of us.”

His eyes dart quickly between the three of them; hard to do when he is in the center of their small triangle.

“W-what? I...I just need some help...I...I don’t know what is g-going on-”

The woman chuckles as her companions inch forwards, trapping him further. “Aren’t you just adorable. You don’t need to know what’s going on, sweetie. You just need to know how to _scream_.”

The rodent snatches him up by the shoulders and runs a clawed hand across his wings. The little white feathers flit and twitch nervously under his touch.

“H-hey-!” He goes to pull away, causing the hands holding him to tighten along his right wing. Very much afraid now, the small skeleton surprises himself when his wings puff out in a burst of light yellow fluff, startling his assailants.

“S _top him he’s going to fly-!_ ” The female says harshly in a half-yell to the rat, startling Sans and prompting the guy holding him to tighten his grip significantly.

_Crack snap pop crack_

Sans’s eyelights blow until they nearly fill his entire eye sockets, then shrink down to pinpricks as the sensation passes through him and his mind registers the multiple broken bones in each of his fragile wings. His teeth grind together and then part as a scream passes through them.

Lifted from the ground so his toes barely scrape the snow, his screams become wails of pain as his mind fails to register anything except the excruciating sensation from every movement. His wings are hypersensitive; it hurts too much to think, let alone speak or move. His body gulps for air, stars dancing in his vision as his eyes roll around trying to make sense of anything. Blinding pain makes a whole lot of sense now, if he were coherent enough to dwell on the idea.

It happens fast, too fast for his delirious mind to register. All he really knows is one moment he’s in absolute agony, being held in the air by broken limbs, and the next there is a fine mist of dust in the air and a pair of long arms supporting him as though he’s a small child.

Spots still dancing in his vision, it is all he can do to simply clutch at the broad chest supporting him, strong arms carefully cradling his weight so as not to put any pressure on his back or wings. All movement is tender, but he feels supported now; safe.

He manages to look up slightly, enough to make out his savior’s...red scarf.

“Breathe in. Out.” The command rumbles through the chest he’s pressed against. He complies, pointedly not thinking about anything. With a face full of red fabric, he inhales a strong scent of spice and dust with his breath. Following the command, he continues breathing steadily until he can feel his toes again.

It occurs to him rather suddenly that they are moving. Whoever is holding him is carrying him somewhere, and fear threatens to take over again. His wings twitch without conscious thought and he whines in pain.

“Quiet, whelp.” The order comes as a growl, and Sans cringes, hunching in on himself before the shooting pain reminds him that moving his back is bad. The burst of renewed agony causes him to obey, mostly out of exhaustion. It is too much effort to think right now.

The person holding him, whom Sans suspects is the same one from outside of town, hums in approval. “I think you will do.” One of the arms supporting him snakes away, and warmth washes over Sans as they enter a building.

He can’t move his head without pain shooting through his neck and spine, so he settles for peeking his eyes open to look blearily around with what little maneuverability he has. He’s in a house...and that’s about all he can discern before the rhythmic footfalls deliver the duo up to the top of a staircase, the jostling sending bouts of pain through his spine.

With feeling having returned somewhat to his arms, he clutches more tightly at the breastplate he’s pressed against, feeling the soft red fabric of the scarf wedge between his phalanges.

It’s so nice to have somebody hold him.

The other lugs him to the end of the hall and opens a door with a key. He enters and attempts to set Sans on a bare mattress wedged into the corner. He clings to the other, not wanting to be put down.

The tall skeleton releases a frustrated sigh but succeeds at peeling away his tiny hands from the blood-red fabric. With his savior being kind enough to put him down gently and watch his injuries, he doesn’t have much fight in him to resist the careful hands as they maneuver his body to lay on the mattress so his ribs are pressed solidly into the lumpy surface.

Sans gets a mouthful of pillow, but doesn’t complain when the other is careful to avoid jostling his wings any further than necessary.

“You will stay put. If I find out you’ve moved about, what _I_ do to you will make what that _rat_ did look like a scraped knee in comparison, runt.” The small skeleton manages to turn his head to the left in time to see the other already halfway to the still open door.

“...t-thank-”

_SLAM_

_Click_

Sans flinches at the sound. Is…Is he just going to leave him here, wherever here is? Returning his face to the lump trying to pass itself off as a pillow, he considers his situation. Things...could be worse. This person could have been meaner to him like those...others had treated him.

He was relatively safe, not out on the streets, inside a warm house, with a bed and everything. A bigger person was clearly protecting him from people who had tried to do him harm _had harmed him severely_. He had then...left him. Alone. Locked in a room… Alone...but maybe it was for his own protection. Yeah. Maybe...maybe there was something wrong with him. Something...that people with leathery wings didn’t like. Maybe his leg had been injured by some thugs like that before.

Maybe. He doesn’t know. He wishes that he could remember something...anything.

But no matter how hard he tries, nothing comes up. So he lies there staring at the dirty white fabric of the pillow, half-awake in a haze of pain. He stays like that for a while, though he doesn’t really know how long. Long enough that the pain faded to a dull ache as he gets accustomed to it. 

The lock turns over, and the door opens.

He hadn’t been focused on anything except the comforting haze; the taller skeleton’s swift entry startles him, causing the injured wings to twitch and spasm in renewed pain. As he gasps on the mattress, digging his bony fingers into the mottled surface, footsteps approach with haste, settling beside him with an annoyed grumble of ‘stop moving’ before he feels a single large hand press down on his back, directly below where his wings meet his spine.

He gasps, anticipating pain...which doesn’t come.

“Small annoyance.” The other grumbles, setting something long, flat and hard against his left wing and carefully tying it in place. “At least you know how to follow orders.” A few more splints are set up on each wing, the monster above him using surprising skill to set the bones back into alignment before splinting them.

His wings are still sensitive, but the hands binding the wings don’t bring the pain he had anticipated. Rather, the touch is...soothing, somewhat, in the methodical rhythm. Under those hands Sans feels his back, and thus his damaged wings, relax somewhat. And through his anxious brain a thought sneaks in regarding how kind it is of the other to patch him up like this, even though he doesn’t even know the guy...

His death grip on the bare pillow loosens, and he reminds himself  to keep breathing as the bones are being set.

Once the monster is done tugging his wings into the proper positions and supporting them, both those warm, gloved hands rest at the very base of his scapulae where his wings meet bone, alight with a soft green glow.

He feels a flutter go through his chest as he sighs contentedly, the warmth of the hands encasing the base of his wings and slowly rolling along his whole back, filling him with an utterly contented feeling of peace and relaxation.

The pain is fading. The hands work their way along the entirety of his spine and wings, and then his chipped and scarred arms and legs for good measure. There’s a pause when he reaches the fracture in his leg, but then the bones knit together obediently. Once that’s done, he pulls away.

Sans is numb, in a good way, all over. He doesn’t want to risk moving too much and upsetting his caretaker, but he chances a look at what parts of himself he can see easily: his arms and hands. They are...whole. No chips, no fractures. Smooth, white bone greets him, and he stares at it, mesmerized.

Distantly he considers his fascination with his bones to be a hazy aftereffect of all the healing magic that must be coursing through him at the moment, but the thought occurs to him regardless that he feels...whole.

He likes that feeling of wholeness, he thinks, still woozy on the excess magic coursing through his bones. Deep inside him, where he knows there hadn’t been anything physical to be broken, he feels warm, like something suddenly fixed itself, or clicked back into place.

He wishes the warm healing magic would revive his lost memories as well as it has mended the other parts of his broken body, but unfortunately it seems even with all of this numbing healing his thoughts remain as clouded as before, names and faces and facts eluding him. Not that he is currently in any state to be trying to remember much, but still.

The sound of footsteps moving towards the door startles him out of his thoughts and he tentatively looks over at the other monster.

Without a word, the taller of the pair seems to be about to leave him alone once more. Sans really, really doesn’t want to be alone.

“Wait...p-plea-” The door solidly slams shut, his tall rescuer never faltering in his pace out the door. Sans flinches from the reverberations. The loud click of the lock echoes slightly through the room, which, now that he is no longer in excruciating pain, he realizes is completely barren. A lone clothes drawer sits across the room, the only furnishing aside from the sheet less mattress he lays upon.

The carpeting has been stripped from the floor, revealing unfinished wooden flooring. There is a pallidness to the walls that he looks away from, unwilling to stare too long. As he raises his head he notes what once may have been a window above the mattress; a bricked-over square greets him now.

This isn't a bedroom. Sans feels his soul shudder in dread. This is more like a cage or a prison cell. He wraps his wings around himself, hugging his jacket like a security blanket.

He wants out. He wants to be _out_. Out of here, out of this situation, out of fear and pain and _loneliness_ … why does he feel so desperately, earth-shatteringly _alone_?

Squeezing his eyes shut, he wishes this were all a bad dream that he could wake up from. But as the seconds tick by, he fails to awaken to anything except this sad reality that presents itself before him in the form of a cold room and colder hospitality.

_Well...it isn’t all bad,_ he thinks, reaching carefully around to his back and sliding a hand slowly over his wings. Still warm from the remnants of healing magic, they are soft under his touch; no longer mangled from the cruelty of the monsters from before.

Sans considers his situation in its entirety, and finds himself more confused than before. The frightening skeleton had saved him from those people who clearly held bad intentions...only to lock him up in a room more resembling a prison cell than a bedroom. Yet...Sans runs his hand once more across his unbroken wing, bringing his hand around to his face to observe the small, unfractured phalanges.

That same terrifying monster had not only saved him, but healed him. Yes, now he is locked in a room but...Sans glances over at the locked door. Maybe it wasn’t to lock him in...but to keep others out? Looking back at his hand, he wonders if perhaps his initial assumptions about this monster were wrong. Maybe he was trying to protect him. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

With a tentative hope seeding in his mind, Sans falls into a restful sleep, his body sinking unconsciously into familiar grooves in the lumpy mattress.

  
_Maybe this person...could be my...friend._


	2. Sunshine and Rainbows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus spends some quality time with his catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wh-WHAT? An update? Before 2018?
> 
> Trash mom beat Sora over the head with a rubber chicken and semi-successfully got them to write. ~~What actually happened was Sora pointed out that what was there was enough for a chapter even though I wanted it longer and then they proceeded to procrastinate and still haven't written a word~~

_What do small fluffy things eat_? Papyrus wonders as he wanders the streets of the little town. His tiny captive will probably be hungry when it awakens, and Papyrus doesn’t want to listen to the little thing whine.

At the risk of lowering his guard ( _phtt like any of the trash in this poor excuse for civilization could get the better of me, the Great and Terrible Papyrus_ , he thinks smugly), the demon takes a moment to consider what will occur once he returns to his new, small...possession.

 _It’ll likely whine for nourishment, then complain about the accommodations._ He’s not looking forward to it. But the thought doesn’t deter him, either. If it starts bawling, he can just punish it.

It will learn.

He will teach it.

Papyrus enters the building labelled ‘SHOP’, a bell sounding his arrival.

A lone rabbit sits at the counter: her shoulders slumped in boredom, her eyes scrutinizing his every movement. As if he were some petty thief, he thinks, as he grimaces at the inflated prices for canned food and basic household items. No wonder she thinks he’s a petty thief. _Everyone_ probably steals from her. But he is the great Papyrus, and he is above stealing!

He just doesn’t know what to get.

He glares at the boxes and unlabelled mystery cans on the store shelves, raising a gloved hand to his jaw in order to look as focused as possible whilst making his decision. This isn’t hard, he just has to think about what the little twit would eat.

He risks a glance over at the shopkeeper, whose eyes have narrowed further (somehow), her hand reaching down beneath the counter. Sweat most certainly doesn’t break upon his magnificent brow, he reminds himself, swiftly sweeping the whole row of food off of the shelf and into his arms. With four strides he is at the counter, and dumps the food ceremoniously, maintaining eye-contact with the purple rabbit demon. Her tail twitches in tandem with her nose.

“Three forty gold.” She drawls. Papyrus grumbles under his breath about the indecency of it all as he fishes out the frankly obscene amount of gold from his inventory.

“There.” He all but spits in her face. Her expression never changes, only flicking down to count the offered gold. He’s already halfway out the door, no reason to bother sticking around to watch the wench count the exact sum. Even if he did stiff her a few gold (which he certainly did not do), it wasn’t as if she would dare touch him.

Stalking to his house, he keeps his hard gaze strictly forward, refusing to acknowledge the lowlife demons prowling the dusty road through this wretched excuse of a village. As the obviously most powerful demon in town, it is his duty to establish a proper hierarchy right away. Weaklings who need to band together in order to win a fight are not fit to roam these streets. _His_ streets.

Papyrus allowed a brief grin to grace his magnificent face as he nears his front door. Yes, anyone who dares to think they have free reign of the place will be swiftly dealt with, he’ll ensure it. There must be some law and order maintained, or else society would fall to the rabble.

Unlocking the door and stepping inside, his eyes dart about once before shutting the door and solidly locking it with his free arm.

Nothing seems to be out of place. Good. That means the runt hasn’t left its room. He stalks into the kitchen and sets about preparing food.

*******

Sans is bored. Incredibly, extremely bored. He’s so bored he’s taken to staring at the bricked over window, imagining what scenes of wonder could possibly be seen through it, even though he knows it’s just the drab little town.

He wonders if it is snowing outside.

He stares at the bricks, being the most intricate part of the bare room, until his neck aches from craning it upwards. He’s still concerned about laying on his back with the wings, but rolls slightly to face the center of the room, laying eyes on the door. He heard the lock click, so it isn’t worth anything to try and escape. His hold on the jacket balled in his arms tightens slightly. There is always still the chance that it isn’t to keep him in place. If it were...safer...in here, than outside…

Then he should stay. But what if it’s not? What if the other person wants to hurt him? He’s scared…

The lock turns.

His eyes are on the door, his back and forth thoughts keeping him on high-alert. It is his captor (savior?), with a bowl of something held carefully between his claws. In a few steady strides he is at Sans’s bedside; it isn’t until the skeleton sits at the foot of the mattress that Sans reacts, scooting himself up as far as he can get away from the other.

He wants contact, but he is afraid.

“Come here, whelp.” The other skeleton demands with a roll of his eyelights. He takes too long gearing up his nerve to obey the command: the tall one leans over slightly and grabs his leg - the one recently healed. He yelps, more from the sudden contact rather than pain, but the reaction is enough to cause the grip on his heel to slacken. Loosely, he is pulled closer to the larger monster. Sans’s eyes dart to the bowl clutched in the other’s claw - he brought him soup, it looks like.

 _Could be poisoned. Drugged. Disgusting._ He gulps, not realizing until the tantalizing scent hit him just how hungry he is. Running for your life with a myriad of injuries will do that to you.

Now sitting in the other’s lap, the larger monster’s long arm cages him against an armoured chest. He has nowhere to go. The thought terrifies him. At the same time he feels significantly less fragile, much less sickly and tired. He doesn't even notice that he’s letting out a pleased hum, that he’s leaning into the arm holding him.

Papyrus does, however.

As the tall skeleton prods the other’s face with a spoon full of hot broth, he watches the other carefully. His body language. The small angel melts into him, his previous fear forgotten in the attention given to the mouthfuls of soup ladled into his now willing mouth.

The bowl placed on a bedside table, Papyrus takes the opportunity to test this strange behavior: as his left hand feeds the creature the meal, the smaller now holding himself upright on its own, his right hand maneuvers to stroke the downy backside of the creature.

The moment he touches the little thing’s absurdly fluffy wings, it goes incredibly stiff, feathers puffing out in some instinctive reaction. It won't take the next bite of food until he removes his hand.

 _Interesting_ ...Papyrus processes this information as he returns his hand to the creature’s chest, spooning in more food to the mouth. _With these wings it is like-_ his nasal aperture wrinkles up at the comparison of this activity to him feeding a baby bird.

 _But...I suppose that is what this is._ _A helpless, starving, fluffy...thing, fully dependent on me to...survive._ A wicked grin eclipses his skull, far above the small head tucked safely beneath his chin.

Sans feels a chill go down his spine and shudders slightly.

Papyrus pulls him closer in response, a possessiveness to his grip that neither skeleton quite recognizes yet.

“U-um-” The smaller of the pair attempts to squirm away. He doesn't like this, his instincts are screaming at him to run once again. At the movement though, the hand returns quickly to his wings, and he again melts into the touch.

At once alarming, yet so satisfying, it is a feeling of conflict that wars within Sans. _But...it doesn’t hurt. He’s...nice..._ People who cause such nice feelings like this, Sans thinks absently as the hand returns to his front, the numbing euphoria fading slowly once more...well, maybe someone like this...it wouldn’t hurt to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Sans shuts his eyes and accepts another spoonful of soup. Once he got past the initial fear, once he forced himself to ignore his body’s screams for him to run, he could enjoy this.

He opens his mouth automatically after swallowing, awaiting another bite that doesn’t arrive. Confused, he opens his eyes (when did he close his eyes? Is he really going to lower his guard so easily to a stranger?) to see the now empty bowl sitting on the table, spoon sticking out of it.

The hand that once held the spoon now reaches for his leg- Sans jumps a bit at the contact as he is pulled away from the strong chestplate, alarmed once more at the unknown situation.

The hand disappears and joins the right at his back, and all at once he is wrapped in a euphoric haze once more as two long claws delicately part his plumage, playing with and stroking each bone and feather.

Papyrus watches the little thing fall into a trance on his lap, snickering to himself how easily manipulated the creature is. He traces the only scars left from his healing job, the previously mangled fracture in the creature’s left femur. It flinches, huddling away from his inquisitive hand. It's… odd. The scars almost perfectly match up with his phalanges.

“Quite the specimen you are…” He mutters lowly. The thing jolts and looks up and behind at him, the ridiculous wings twitching. The movement reveals a curious stripe of red around its neck.

Tilting his head slightly in interest, Papyrus moves the small skull to get a better view of it’s neck...where a red, leather collar hangs limply. Not the fanciest of things, and missing a tag, but still. An interesting discovery.

Curling a single finger around the band for closer inspection, the demon notes how the metal clasp is twisted, as though the tag has been wrenched from it with force. Upon pulling the collar closer the smaller skeleton emits a whimper-- of fear or pain Papyrus doesn’t care.

He releases it regardless, watching it with his eyes calculating as it rubs its neck.

“I didn't even know I was wearing that?” It mumbles to itself, fingering the collar. He watches it closely, careful for any sign of resistance. It seems a bit lost in thought, so he addresses the creature first.

“You’ll keep it on while you remain here. It suits you.” It flushes a soft red, from fear or embarrassment he doesn’t know. The skeleton wraps a small bony hand around the thick leather as Papyrus continues.

“You are to stay here, with me. I shall keep a creature like you from the cruelties of the outside world.” He moves a hand to caress the creature’s feather tips, earning a keen of approval. “Other demons are not as kind as I. They would do you harm...here, you will be removed from the dangers of outside.” The bundle of bones on his lap quivers at the words. Good - it should be scared.

Another few strokes of his hand and the being was practically purring. This technique would serve as a useful reward to keep the creature obedient, Papyrus thinks to himself.

He nearly misses it over the low, peaceful rumbling from the creature as he is pet, but the other repeats himself so that he is heard by the tall demon.

“...my name is Sans.” The small being looks up to meet his rescuer’s eyes with hopeful gratitude. “I think...I’m an angel.” He looks down again, bashful. Papyrus blinks. “...thank you for saving me.” He brings a small hand to his head, grimacing at phantom pain. “I...can’t...remember anything besides that…” His eyes waver for a moment, trying to concentrate on a memory that won’t form. “But…” He looks back to the tall skeleton’s neutral face, giving the barest of smiles. “You...you were kind to me. So...thank you.”

Papyrus eyes ‘Sans’, thinking back on the little curiosities the angel brought along with him. The deja vu, the identical scars, the rush of protectiveness and possessiveness… It gave him an idea. The little whelp didn’t know any better….

“I am glad I managed to get you home safely, my little angel. I was getting worried.” At his words, the tranquil mood is broken - Sans’s eyes knot together in confusion, concern. The little thing looks perturbed over something.

“I...what?” It’s confused. How charming, Papyrus thinks gleefully to himself, smothering his pleased look under guise of a sly smile.

“Yes...as I said, you are home, my angel.” Papyrus resumes the petting he had forgone with Sans’s confession, but the small one is less entranced by the motions than before. Forcing himself to pay attention to detail...some smarts do lie under that haze of memory.

“The outside world is a frightening place for a small creature such as yourself.” The angel has stopped moving, frozen in place as he processes Papyrus’s honeyed words. The demon pays him no mind and continues his ministrations, his plan forming as the words spill from his masterful mouth.

“You were damaged, clearly, so I’ll need to remind you of the rules here.” Still no reaction from the other, besides a barely noticeable shaking. From fear or anger, Papyrus doesn’t know - and doesn’t particularly care.

“You’ll remain here, with me, your master. I keep you safe from the other demons. Other, weaker demons...they have little control over impulses. The base impulse to harm…” A clawed hand curls possessively over a wing, drawing a shudder from the frail angel.

“...to damage…” He resumes his petting. “A demon of my strength is the only sort who holds the ability to fend off lowlifes such as those who attacked and stole you from me.”

Sans is… uncertain. On the one hand, this monster… he doesn't recognize him. He’s scary, and Sans has been fighting his instincts all day as his body screamed at him to flee. On the other, though… it made a certain amount of sense. The pieces fit together in his mind-- he could easily imagine living here, in this little prison cell of a room, and longing for some fresh air. Wanting to go outside but being forbidden due to the danger. It was easy for him to imagine himself, stupidly ignoring warnings and sneaking away, only to get in some kind of accident and lose his memories. Break his leg.

And then he ran, when he saw the demon. And… if he really was Sans’s ‘master’, he would know that something was wrong when he ran, right? It would raise a red flag. And then those other demons…

The pieces fit together, but… Sans clutches at his shirt hem. He doesn't know what feels off. Maybe it's just the memory loss. He is frightened. So, terribly frightened. But...how can he say what is real right now?

Sans clenches his fists together to ground himself as the petting continues. Each stroke delivers a pleasurable feeling through his bones, but his situation demands concentration.

Lack of memory or not, he retains a grain of common sense, of stability. He isn’t a fool - he knows how easy it is (especially now, after encountering those...demons...outside) to manipulate someone without memories. This...this demon could be telling him anything. He has no proof, no evidence of the contrary.

Frightening as this skeleton is, as much as his instincts tell him to flee, to run...another part of him cannot squash the reminder that he was never harmed by this skeleton. Quite the opposite - he saved him, brought him home, healed him and gave him food.

In his heart of hearts, he feels a warm spark grow. Faith.

He’ll put a bit of blind faith in this monster, whom he knows nothing about.

What harm could it do?

Sans shuts his eyes and leans back, resting his head against the other’s armored chest plate. “I… I don't remember you.” He mutters softly. “But...I’ll believe you.” The hands still ever so slightly, then continue their preening, moving more slowly than before.

Some minutes pass in silence as Sans allows the motions to lull him back into a sleepy, content state, until the demon’s voice breaks the quiet in the softest tone he’s heard from the other.

The owner of those large claws smiles wickedly above the small angel’s head, where his honest feelings cannot be seen.

“Good...my good little angel.”

The praise sends sparks of almost physical warmth down Sans’s spine, and Papyrus is treated to a fascinating sight-- the little white feathers seem to instantly go glossy, looking far healthier than the matted keratin had been just moments before.

There is a faint glow, and drawing one wing up closer, he sees a shimmer of strange magic emanating from each feather. The little creature apparently doesn’t notice the glow, basking in his own afterglow of the odd reaction.

 _What a mysterious creature...an angel…_ Papyrus ponders, hovering his hand slowly over the fading glow of a wing.

“Sir…you never told me your name…” Sans mumbles.

He wonders if he went unheard, as the demon fails to respond. Instead, he starts to move - with a start Sans has been placed (gently) onto the bed, away from the pleasant heat of another monster’s body and magic. Upon gathering up the dining utensils with one hand, the tall skeleton is quickly across the room.

Rather disappointed, Sans turns slightly, re-positioning himself on the bed.

“Papyrus.”

He starts, head whipping around to the deep voice standing in the open doorway. One hand rests on the knob. The demon never looks at him - but shuts the door with a solid _click_. A moment later two clear locks twist into place, trapping him in the dreary room once more.

Sans shivers, all warmth within the room and within himself seeming to vanish. He feels… sick. Despite himself he can’t help but let out a little whimper. His wings twitch restlessly for a moment, then wrap around him as though it can compensate for the sudden emptiness he feels.

He can’t stay in this barren cell of a room anymore. He _can’t_. Sans hops to his feet and rushes over to the door, at first trying the knob. It’s locked, of course. He knocks on it, but after a moment with no response he gets a little more frantic and then a little more and soon he’s banging on it with both fists, tears streaming down his face as he begs to be let out.

The scant time the other spent with him allowed almost a physical manifestation of warmth to coalesce in the room - with his absence the space becomes a void, all happiness fleeting, sucked from the room along with the demon as he exited. He lets the dramatic display wear out, his emotional state overriding his inner judgemental reminder that this was a childish reaction to the person who saved your life, offered you shelter, and...apparently is your friend.

_Owner_

The word appears in his mind, much colder now that he is away from the honeyed words of the other. The stark reality of what awaits him hits like a ton of bricks.

Had they really been in some domestic relationship like that? Had he been kept away in this house in this hostile town, locked away from the ‘dangerous’ outside? Or is he a prize to be won, and this is simply the strongest monster around? Without any recollection of his true past or what his own existence meant, being an ‘angel,’ he is lost for an answer.

As he sinks to the ground, fists aching from the harsh treatment against the door, he mentally runs through the angles of his predicament.

What he said…

“Papyrus” Sans whispers aloud, getting a feel for the name. It rolls off his tongue, as if it had many times before. It could always be a trick of his mind, some strange offset of the amnesia impairing his judgement and making him more needy, more reliant on the first person to show kindness to him, as conditional as it seemed to be, yet still…

Back pressed against the door, Sans curls his legs to his chest and buries his skull between his knees, surrounding himself in the warmth of his newly-mended wings. This whole situation is so overwhelming...who can he trust, when he doesn’t know anyone’s motives?

Can he really take anyone’s word at face value, regardless of how he is treated?

...does he even have a choice?

He feels small and fragile in comparison to the others around him. Tiny, trapped, like a little bird in a cage. And he wants _out_. Frustrated tears spring to his eyes and track down his skull.

*******

Frisk lets out an annoyed screech of frustration, throwing yet another book against the wall. Behind her, Chara’s incorporeal form does what can only be described as a facepalm.

“ _Nothing_ !” Frisk yells. “Every _fucking_ monster is a _FUCKING_ demon! Not a single angel in the whole crop!”

“Keep your bosom at a steady rhythm, hun, we’ll think of something.” Chara reassures. It should be noted that he is not very good at reassuring his partner in crime.

“ _What_?”

“ _Calm your tits, Frisk_!” He yells. “Look, let’s just head back to Snowdin. Maybe we missed someone.”

“Fiiiine…” She mutters.

*******

The banging has stopped. Finally. Papyrus was starting to get a headache. He kicks back on the sofa, rubbing his temples.

That had been so annoying. He should probably punish the little twit-- He certainly doesn't want it getting any ideas that it could make all the noise it wants.

Thinking about the angel makes him contemplative. There wasn’t much thought behind the acquisition, it was much more of an impulse grab than anything thorough.

He’ll have to come up with some long-term plan for keeping it quiet. He’ll also have to come up with rules and punishments to keep it in line. Those wings could work for the former as that... _odd_ phenomenon of stroking them certainly calmed the twitchy little monster down. Those wings...

He spies a blot of shimmering white on his pant leg from amidst his musings. Focusing in on the speck reveals it to be a small white feather. Delicately he pinches it between two tapered points and brings it to his face for inspection.

It's glossy and healthy-looking, with a rainbow sheen. Barely two inches long and soft to the touch it is a far cry from the matted, sickly feathers the creature had sported before its meal.

Could an angel work so differently than a demon as to heal such heavy damage with a single meal? That couldn’t possibly be the answer, Papyrus thinks to himself as he studies the pin-prick of light. While he fortunately has suffered few major injuries during his existence, on the rare occasions he did crack a bone or dislodge something it took at minimum several days if not some weeks to fully heal.

From what he has seen of lesser demons with more severe injuries, if they found sustenance to assist with healing, it still took several weeks for flesh and bone to fix itself. For this new creature, this _angel_ , to so effortlessly heal itself of all injuries after a single meal…

The center light catches the feather he still grasps. He recalls the way the wings reacted to his strokes, how they emitted an odd warmth and light at his touch.

This will take some time and patience to figure out, he concludes, carefully incinerating the feather in his grasp with a brief flare of magic. He is in no rush, however. He has all the time in the world...so long as he keeps his prize out of the public eye.

A list of things he’ll need to accrue slides into his head as slots pins on a task board, the thought alone causing a tired breath to wheeze past his sharp teeth. He would do it. Of course he would do it all to see the creature kept away from them.

Only he could have the angel.

He would keep it, and he would teach it to fear and respect him, to do as it was told lest it suffer the consequences. He feels the crushing need to _control_ , to _dominate_ , and though he is uncertain whether this is simple base instinct or something _more_ , he is powerless against the urge to break the little twit down and reshape it into something that would be _his and only his_ , no matter what.

To see that smile turned up towards him with nothing but adoration and trust shining through its eyelights...

Pushing such thoughts to the back of his mind, Papyrus contemplates appropriate punishments for different levels of insubordination as he stretches slowly while standing, leathery wings creaking from lack of use. It’s helpful that the creature doesn’t remember anything. So long as he keeps his hand close to his chest, the angel will never discover the truth about his situation.

And luckily, it isn’t very difficult to pretend to know someone that doesn’t even know themselves.

He climbs to his feet and heads up the stairs. He can hear soft sobbing from behind the door to the angel’s room. It is very useful that his chosen abode came with a room that was built to contain; a sturdy door with several locks and the window already barred ensuring his prize will be secure.

He slams a fist on the wood. “ ** _Shut up, whelp_**.”

Audible scrabbling and a breathy gasp of air indicates that his order is acknowledged. If there is any more commotion tonight, he can always go in there and twist the twit’s wing until it complies. Until then, he might as well get some sleep.

Since awakening weeks ago, he’s found little need for rest. Appreciated, if a tad dull. It is trifling to do the same claw-sharpening ritual daily without any worthy opponents to practice on; the town offering more scapegoats than companions.

Perhaps with this addition to his life, he can find something more interesting to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect another chapter eventually  
> i have no idea when


	3. How bad can I possibly be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans, Ghosties, and murder, oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shock*  
> An update? And it only took a month? What madness is this?

Frisk climbs out of the boat, shaking her head in annoyance. Demons are infinitely more irritating than monsters. And they still can’t recognize a human if it pays them. And she had! Paid the Riverperson, that is. Riverdemon? Whatever. They head towards Snowdin, intent on checking every nook and cranny for any non-reborn monsters.

“I just know there is someone I’m missing here…” the child mutters aloud, a forgotten metal tag bouncing innocently in their pocket.

********

He is warm, and it is soft. He doesn’t want to leave the darkness.

Too soon he becomes aware of his limbs, his body curled into a calm ball on a soft surface. Warmth radiates faintly from what covers his body: as one flexes slightly in his awakening state, it registers that these are his wings. He must have fallen asleep and curled into this position during the night.

Content with the state of the world, he lets the warmth seep into his bones and moves only enough to ensure maximum comfort. As his mind fades once more into unconsciousness, he mildly wonders if there is anything important he needs to do today to keep _______ off of his back.

The final dredges of sleep take him fully before he realizes the implications behind such a thought, the notion being lost to the void of sleep.

********  
His hand hovers over the knob to the battered door, unusually hesitant to awaken his (guest? Housemate? Pet??) angel from sleep. Whilst he requires only minimum rest in order to perform at peak condition, his new acquisition may perform better if given more time to rest.

While he appeared healed enough the day before, his energy levels may yet be low. It is too early to tell how such strange magic as the glow from those wings works; if it drained the creature too much to function properly the next day, it certainly wouldn’t benefit either of them to make its recovery stretch out further than necessary.

Not that Papyrus has decided what, for certain, he will _do_ with the angel. It is just...practicality, he supposes, that leads him to desire it to be as healthy as possible as quickly as possible, to be brought into peak physical condition and be maintained as such.

And...after much deliberation the night and morning prior to this moment, Papyrus has decided that perhaps not _everyone_ could reach his own superior level of physical and magical ability, nor match his great intellect.

Thus.

He supposes that this mysterious creature ought not be held to such high and possibly unobtainable standards.

After all, he is a fair and reasonable demon.

Which brings him to this moment of indecisiveness: to open the door and risk disrupting an important segment of physical and mental healing, or to make his stance as master of this house be known early on, to insist that ‘laziness’ and slovenly behavior will not be tolerated, that the angel had best prepare itself for…

For…

...something.

And there it was. The one, tiny flaw in the otherwise grandiose and well-crafted plan of the Great and Terrible Papyrus.

He had no idea what he wanted of this angel, except to hold it and pet it.

And by all the demons in the Underground he was _not_ going to keep some...some... _featherpet_ around _his_ house eating _his_ food and taking up _his_ valuable time (time which he had already been admitting to himself he has possibly too much of, given the lack of interesting things to do in this town aside from walk around being his magnificent self).

No, he was going to find a purpose for this creature, a reason to keep it alive (and fed and well-groomed and its feathers preened and glossy-).

He could solve any puzzle, construct any array of marvelous, devious traps! He would not be swayed by such a confuddling thing as this _angel_!

For all he knows, those wings might be emitting some magical aura that alters his mind. It isn’t like there is a precedent for this sort of creature, this one-of-a-kind mutation of the demon race.

If he were any less magnificent, he might even consider such an enigma...dangerous.

Before he really has a chance to make a final decision on the matter of waking the angel, he hears a ruckus from outside his abode. Choosing to delay the difficult decision, he goes to find out what miscreant is making such noise.

He hops over the banister and glides down towards the door. He is of course wonderfully tall enough that he can see out the small window at the top, and he peers out to, eh, _check_ the situation before stepping into it.

There seems to be a demon (the rabbit woman from the store) and something… else…engaging in fisticuffs on his front lawn.

It’s a small thing, this ‘something else,’ with hair only on the top of its head and pale skin flushed red. It is attacking with a blade, fists, and feet rather than magic, clawing at the demon pinning it to the ground while stabbing at her wings. It seems to be just as angry as she is, as it brings a knee up forcefully between her legs and makes her cry out in pain.

Papyrus opens the door slowly, trying not to attract attention. Not because he is _afraid_ , no, such plebian fighting could never scare one such as him, the Great and Magnificent Papyrus, but so that he can observe better. If he startled the occupants of the brawl he may lose his chance to discover what this non-demon thing is. If it is unique, as the angel is, then he wants it under his control. The common masses don’t deserve rarities such as the angel or... _this_.

“DIE DIE DIE DIE _DIE_!” The being shrieks, stabbing its opponent repeatedly. The rabbit woman crumbles to dust which gets all over its face and clothing. The entity stands and looks around, eyes landing on Papyrus and narrowing.

“Of course _you’re_ not an angel.” It grumbles.

The alluring, wispy ideas Papyrus had been entertaining pop like a balloon.

_It knows what an angel is._

_It is_ looking _for an angel._

He shuts the door with a definitive _thump_ , lock snapping into place. It is unfortunately an afterthought that such behavior could be misconstrued as cowardly in the face of a mysterious opponent, but even that usually concerning thought remains as backdrop to this revelation.

Scarcely daring to move (and definitely not sweating red globules of magic from his skull), he hears the being outside huff at his disappearance, louder-than-necessary footfalls trudging away indicating it won’t pursue him for the moment.

Reassuring himself that the feeble-looking yet capable creature must have decided to not challenge him at this time due to reputation alone (which made him feel a tad better knowing his reputation has reached beyond the cold confines of this section of their realm), he trains his attention inward, reflecting on the intentions of the strange new being.

Two new creatures in such a short period of time is no coincidence; they may have some connection. From the more familiar violence exhibited by the non-demon, he can presume it is familiar with their world. The other, though, his angel...it has had no expression of violence, not merely due to its obvious physical weaknesses either.

To have these two meet would surely be the wrong course of action. The worst-case scenario.

 _It wants_ my _angel._

Back pressed to the closed door (most certainly not in visible effort to keep the door standing between the creature and himself), a low feeling of possessive rage grows over him.

********

“Well, Papyrus was a bust.” Frisk grumbles as she shuts the shop’s door behind her. Chara floats through the wall, serenely calm.

“You were hoping for righteous anger when you showed off that dog tag but all you got was anger.” He remarks as Frisk begins looting the store, dumping entire shelves into her inventory. Chara sticks his hand into the lock on one of the cases, focusing just enough that his transparent fingers move the tumblers. After a mere moment of finicky maneuvering, the lock pops off and he moves onto the next one.

“Yeah, he must _really_ have hated his brother. Piece of shit. Even I liked Sans to a point.”

“Yeah, until he sold you that umbrella filled with holes.”

“Like I said, to a point. Come help me pop this till open.”

“Why are we clearing out the place, again?” Chara asks as he floats over and begins to manipulate the mechanism on the cash register.

“Because if we don’t, someone else will, and then I lose all the resources here. As long as I’m stuck in this stars-forsaken hole in the ground, I’m going to need to eat and pay for things. Why let this stuff go to waste?”

“Fair enough. You could just reset and start over.”

“Yeah, with the same damned results! I need an angel. I can only get an angel if the monsters in the Underground die without being an angry ball of ass. Since the people of the Underground are all shitheads, that’s not going to happen. Papyrus was our best chance.”

“Speaking of Papyrus…Did he seem a little…off, to you?”

Frisk pauses, looking over at where Chara had drifted off to. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he just… shut the door. Really fast. Normally he’d come out and confront you, wouldn’t he?”

Frisk dumps the till into her wallet, frowning thoughtfully. “That does seem to be his way, blustering and over-inflating his ego. Biting off more than he can chew.”

“Isn’t it odd? And we haven’t run into Sans yet, despite going all the way back to where we killed him.”

“No, we haven’t. What exactly are you implying?”

“Well, Papyrus was acting almost like… He was hiding something.”

Frisk drops the can she’s holding, turning to stare at the ghost. “...No. No way.”

“Why not? It almost makes sense.”

“But he _hates_ Sans! And when Sans died--” Frisk stops talking for a moment, her eyes going wide as she remembers. “Oh, hell, he was _smiling_ when he died. That is so-- Oh, come on!”

Chara nods thoughtfully. “It’s a theory, at the very least, right? Somewhere to start.”

Frisk nods along. “Okay, okay, I get it. We’ll at least check it out. I’m gonna be pissed if you’re right, though.”

Chara laughs, flipping onto his back carelessly. “Then it’s decided. After we finish up here, we go see the big bad skeleton. Make sure to save first, though.”

“Of course.” Frisk says, mildly offended. “Do you take me for an idiot?”

********

Sans wakes up feeling more tired than when he went to sleep. He doesn’t want to move. His wings are heavy and his entire world seems to be filled with a faint buzzing noise.

Slowly, he shakes his head to clear it, looking about the room he’s in.

Same as the night before. He sighs. It is probably a good thing that he hasn’t awakened to some horrible sight of...whatever it may be that a demon would do to an angel.

Come to think of it, while he has reservations about this arrangement, and legitimate fears, he isn’t exactly sure _what_ he is afraid of. A wing twitches unconsciously and he considers the unappealing factor of pain. While he may be naive as to what darker horrors might await him should he attempt to mount a successful escape or fight back against his captor, he has already experienced broken bones and damaged wings.

That is enough of a deterrent for him for the moment, he decides, nestling back into the mattress without much mind for sleeping. He presses his face into the lumpy pillow, his wings fanning out to flop gracelessly over his back. He hugs the old leather jacket to himself, breathing in a familiar, yet at the same time foreign, smell of dust and blood and sweat.

The door opens.

His head turns to the sight of Papyrus’s tall frame outlined in the door, staring intently at him.

Sans immediately feels uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny, sitting up straight as though he’ll be scolded for simply lying down. His wings fold against his back and he tries to meet that burning gaze, but his own eyelights quickly dart away.

“Um. Hi?” No response. The awkward moment is heightened by the demon’s lack of reaction. A prickle of nervous energy creeps down his spine as he shifts anxiously on the bed. “Have I done something…” Sans begins, trailing off as Papyrus stalks toward him. The tall demon radiates a menacing aura of malevolence, and Sans finds himself unable to repress physical quakes from being so close to such a suffocating presence.

There is little room to backpedal, yet his body scrambles back against the wall behind him, reminding his frightened mind that there remains nowhere to run should this encounter become violent. Sans closes his eyes as the demon reaches his bedside, whispering apologies for anything he may have unintentionally done to aggravate the other skeleton.

The dark aura presses against him until he is certain the air must be choked with a visible malice, so focused on his own fear that he physically starts at the gentle touch against his mandible. Eyes snapping open, Sans looks up to see Papyrus’s face close to his own, bending over to reach his diminutive height on the low bed. Wide-eyed, he cannot manage a proper reaction as the demon strokes his face carefully, as if afraid his claws will further damage his scarred bones.

“ _Mine_.” The demon whispers, almost a hiss if not for the intense undertone of possessive intent in his gravelly word.

Completely inappropriately, Sans feels his entire head heat up at the situation. He must be bright red, and the thought alone is mortifying enough to snap him from his paralytic state. Bony hands rise to cover his eyesockets frantically, face turning from that intense gaze as he fights to prevent any sort of noise from escaping his teeth.

He doesn’t trust _anything_ he might say in this moment.

Thankfully, even as he prays for some kind of distraction, one is provided. A loud banging that startles both he and the demon badly enough to jolt, coming from down the stairs. Papyrus’s eyes widen, then narrow, and he shoves away from Sans, storming out the door and slamming it shut behind him.

********

Frisk stands on the stoop, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. She reaches up and pounds on the door again, LV-enhanced strength making it rattle on its hinges, though there’s no real chance of her breaking it down even riding the high of a full-on genocide run.

Another moment passes, and an angry tick forms within her matted hair. Drawing back her hand to begin to punch the door in (despite knowing that doors in the Underground are specifically created to stand up to attacks a lot stronger than what she can produce on her own), she is barely able to restrain herself (with the ‘helpful’ ghostly reminder that doors are not monsters and will not turn to dust if hit with enough desire to hurt, from Chara) when the door suddenly is flung open.

She stares down (hard to do whilst looking up, up, and up at a monster, but somehow her glare is poisonous enough to do just that) the skeleton demon in the doorway. “You’re hiding something.” She says bluntly.

Papyrus narrows his already beady eyesockets at her.

“What gives you the right to make such untrue accusations of the Great and Terrible Papyrus in his own home?!”

Frisk cocks a single eyebrow, continuing to stare him down. Despite the fact that this is a gamble, her voice is clear and calm as she says, “I’m looking for _Sans_.” If Chara is wrong, after all, a simple reload will fix it.

Three beats pass in silence.

“I haven’t the faintest idea of which you speak. I don’t know any Sans. Or what a ‘sans’ even is. Are you sans a sans?? Preposterous! Should you happen to know what a ‘sans’ is, I’ll only ask you this once to explain what such a thing is. Otherwise, don’t waste my time with such mindless mind games. Goodbye!” The door slams shut in their faces.

Frisk exchanges a glance with their ghostly companion.

“You didn’t believe a word of that, did you?” Chara asks.

Frisk shakes her head. “Do I look stupid to you?”

“Sometimes.”

Frisk scoffs and reloads.

********

Rather abruptly, Papyrus goes from steaming mad in his living room to steaming mad, leaning over the angel and stroking his face.

Before he can orient himself in this new, unexpected position, he hears a loud banging coming from his front door that startles him, and combined with the sudden shift in positions knocks him onto his glorious fanny.

“P-papyrus?!” The angel squeaks from its position in the corner, but Papyrus has little time for its reaction to his fall.

_What just happened?_

Realizing he has been staring blankly at the small skeleton, long enough for it to have crawled closer to the edge of the mattress and peer at him hesitantly (even with his pelvis on the floor he remains slightly taller than the crouching angel), the continued poundings on the front door keep him from processing whatever just occurred.

“Stay there,” he growls, scrambling up from the floor in the most dignified fashion possible and making for the door. In two bounds he is outside the doorframe and clicking every locking mechanism into place.

Regardless of whatever strange, psychic, future vision that was, he refuses to leave his angel unguarded. Still hurrying, he realizes halfway down the stairs (walking, even if he takes them two at a time) that perhaps he doesn’t want to question (be questioned by) this being.

His pace stalls at the base of the stairwell, heavy knocking at the door fading to the background as much as possible as he thinks.

But the sudden, equilibrium-shattering teleportation or vision or _whatever it was_ that had occurred directly after slamming the door in its face gives him pause. Had the _being_ had something to do with it? The knocking gets ever more insistent, and then is joined by shouted threats of breaking the door down in a high-pitched feminine voice. The only way he has a chance at finding out is to answer it and stare down the tiny creature. He should not be afraid (even if it is looking for an angel and knows the name of _his_ angel).

With that thought, he sweeps the rest of the way to the door in three long strides and opens it, opening his mouth to speak--

\-- Only for the tiny being to duck around his leg and make a break for the stairs.

His eyesockets grow comedically wide during the split second it takes his mind to process what is happening. Luckily it only takes another full second for his body to react to the little hellion on a dead run up his staircase.

********

Frisk lunges for Sans’s bedroom door. It’s locked up tighter than a brothel when the cops show up, of course, but _they_ don’t need to go in. They just need to get _close enough_ \--

Chara flies through the wall. “One very confused angel skeleton, accounted for!” They call, and begin the process of working the locks open, slowly.

 _Stall, stall, stall for time_. Frisk smiles winningly at Papyrus, half-expecting to be attacked. “What could you possibly have in here that warrants so many locks?”

********

Papyrus stares at the being. It’s smiling at him.

The question caught him off-guard, and had he not been close to a panic with how close this weird creature was to his angel’s room, perhaps his answer would have been more calculated, sinister, or thought out in some way.

“LEWD THINGS.” He regrets the words that escape his mandible until the moment the creature’s face blanches, turning down in clear disgust and disbelieving horror. At that reaction Papyrus takes total control of his amazing answer and decides to selectively forget exactly what he said, instead cataloguing that reaction in his memory for all time as a commemoration of his brilliant ability to still the tongues of his foes and cause them to freeze in fear.

After that thought cleanses his mind, he remembers that this creature is standing in his house. Next to the door his angel resides behind.

He scowls.

SHING SPLUGG CRUNCH

Three bone attacks spear its small but ragged body, protruding from the carpeted floor. Grimacing at the mess, he only gets as far as to stew over the weird red ooze coming from the fleshy being and wondering how to get it out of the carpet before the world goes white.

********

“Of all the things he could have said--” Frisk fumes. Her face is bright red, and it’s not just because snowdin is cold as all get out.

Chara is not helping matters. He’s laughing so hard that he would break a bone if he were corporeal. Frisk would be happy to break a few more if only she could.

“‘Lewd things’! ‘ _Lewd things_!’ He’s hiding an angel and the first excuse he comes up with is **_lewd things_**!”

Chara doubles over in mid-air, still cackling.

“... So now what?”

That brings him up short. “What?”

“What do we do now? We know where there’s an angel. But you can’t pull your lock trick off on that front door because the house is a freaking fortress and the lock is way too complicated, not to mention the deadbolt which is too hard for you to turn. If we go in like we just did he’ll just keep killing me. So what do we do?”

“... Well shit. I don’t know.”

Frisk shrieks and kicks a hat-wearing demon shaped like a rock. It smashes into Grillby’s storefront and crumbles to dust.

********

Papyrus abruptly finds himself leaning over the angel, stroking his face.

He tears his hand away as if burned, garnering another confused look from the angel. The demon looks at his hand where two drops of red liquid had been merely a moment ago, then up at his angel, whose confused look mirrors the same he received the last time he found himself suddenly shucked back into this position.

Turning his gaze back to his hand he clenches it, willing himself to focus and set his mind.

What the heck keeps happening?

After a moment of turning the idea around in his mind, he realizes something is… off.

It’s quiet.

Where is the banging?

He whips his head toward the open door, paying no heed to the same startled call that occurred last time.

“P-papyrus?!” The angel stammers, but the demon is already at the door, shutting and locking it behind him without another glance. Focused, he stalks down the stairs with purpose, giving ample time for the anticipated knocks to fall upon his door.

Upon reaching the front door he peeks out the window, scrutinizing the empty stoop.

“Where are you…” he mutters suspiciously.

He hears an ear-piercing shriek of frustration and turns just in time to see a rock demon meet an unfortunate end. The being is glaring at its dust like the stuff has personally offended it.

A familiar feeling rolls over him as he turns his gaze from outside the house, leaning back against the wooden frame. His wings twitch as they cushion his weight.

The flesh-being has acted differently each time this...this... _rewind_ has occurred. Holding a hand before his face, he tests his grip just to move his hand.

_Too real to be a vision...but then what?_

A demon of certainty, during his brief tenure of existence, he has always drawn strength from knowing more than others. Knowing he was the strongest before the first fight he won, knowing which demons to challenge and which to keep at arm’s length. Knowing what was his was _his_ , that no one could take it from him.

But this being is new, is different. And unlike the angel, a creature that clearly couldn’t harm him if it wanted to, this being was tricky, conniving…

Knowledgeable.

It somehow _knew_ not to knock again. One hand rubbed his mandible as his mind worked through this realization. It knew knocking and running in as it had before wouldn’t work, just as it had known charging in the first time would work.

It had changed attack strategies with each rewind.

It _knew_ this phenomenon was occurring.

A deeply concerning thought, he spared a glance to the secure door his angel was locked behind. It knew, somehow, exactly where his angel would be, and could have even been stalling for time asking that ridiculous question.

Less concerning (but no less intriguing) was the idea that his angel had reacted the same each time, apparently not starting at the demon’s sudden re-appearance in its room twice. Was the angel...not aware of this phenomenon?

“Papyrus?” There’s a tentative knocking on the upstairs door. “Did I do something wrong?” The angel’s statement is quiet. The morning’s trepidations seem so trivial now with this revelation; he needs to investigate this as delicately and subtly as possible. He mustn’t allow this being, potentially the source if not the trigger for these odd jump-backs, to know he is aware of what is happening.

Scheming silently to himself, he gathers his gloves and boots from the living room and exits his home, singularly focused on discovering what this being is and what it means for himself and his angel.

********

After leaving his question to sit in the silence of the house, Sans anxiously awaits some confirmation that the demon heard him. Though footsteps cross the room downstairs, the opening and closing of the front door, followed by encompassing silence, is the demon’s answer.

Tense from confusion and worry, Sans feels his entire body slump in disappointment.

Is this his fate? To be confused and alone in this little room for the rest of his life, sprinkled with the terror of the occasional possessive rage of his so-called ‘owner’?

If he really did run away, he thinks he knows exactly why.

Sadly he trudges back to the bed, wings drooping low enough for the tips to brush against the dusty floor.

Walking onto the lumpy mattress, he circles once, kneading the bed with his feet, then plops down unceremoniously onto his coccyx. After a few quiet moments of sitting cross-legged, he squirms himself onto his side, curling up in the most comfortable position he can manage while still able to touch his wings.

Reaching two phalanges out he slowly pets the leading edge, feeling a small trill of warmth filter through him. He smiles softly, continuing the motion until warm tears begin to drip slowly from his eyesockets.

He falls asleep after an unknown length of time, eyesockets dyed red and arm outstretched toward the door as his wings pull against him like a natural blanket.

********

As the greatest and most terrible demon in all of Snowdin, Papyrus knows a thing or two about the art of reconnaissance.

That hasn’t stopped the being from being _completely aware_ that he’s spying on them, and he cannot figure out how. But every time they entered a shop or building, and he followed a few moments after, looking like just another patron, they’d unerringly turn and give him a blank, emotionless pokerface before suddenly _smiling_ in a way that just looks wrong.

When he followed from a safe distance in the forest, flying so his boots made no contact with the snow, they would start singing about ‘spooky scary skeletons’, occasionally glancing backward. He always hid, but they seemed to know right where he was as they’d turn that unsettling smile onto him.

How can something with such straight, small teeth have such a threatening grin?

Uncertain of their destination (for as knowledgeable as he was of the Snowdin forest, there yet remained areas he had not explored), the demon tails the small being further yet further into the woods, until it approaches a large clearing. Unwilling to leave the illusion of cover the trees provide, he watches as the creature walk right up to the lone cabin in the center clearing and enter, shutting the door behind them with loud finality.

What _are_ they? Where did they come from? How long have they been here? Do they live in this log cabin? What are their goals?

Why do they want an angel?

… If they knew his angel’s name, and they were looking for an angel, was it possible that the _being_ was his angel’s owner; The one who’d originally collared and claimed it? Had he, the Wonderful and Amazing Papyrus, _stolen_ the creature from this entity? He clenches his fists. He is above theft. Thievery was resorted to by scoundrels and gutter trash, not magnificent demons such as he.

Pausing in his reverie, he thinks critically about how to amend this dastardly train of thought.

No...this angel wasn’t stolen by him. Of course he would never be caught stooping to such low measures, even by accident.

The Great and Terrible Papyrus does _not_ do _anything_ by ‘accident;’ every action is controlled, thought out, precise.

Thus...if he did not come to own this angel through shady means...that only leaves his legal and wholesome acquisition of the creature. Since it was wandering the streets, utterly lost and confused, unable to tell him from whence it came…

Clearly...he rescued it. Not merely from the thugs threatening to dust or corrupt it on the street, but from a life on the street itself, a horrid existence of cold and sorrow, loneliness and misery.

Only _he_ is allowed to cause such feelings within other creatures.

If he saved the angel...that means it was left to wander the streets by itself. Its previous owner must have neglected it, clearly failing to secure it properly, allowing such a frail and precious creature to be without a guardian in a dangerous, demon-filled village.

He rescued the angel. He _saved_ the angel. He clearly has put more effort into ensuring its safety than that being ever did.

Clearly he _deserved_ to be the true owner of the angel; only _he_ can attend to its needs and ensure it will stay safe.

Nodding to himself, he sets off for home. He needs to feed his (pet?) angel and do… something. Do something with his time. He has a lot of it, and he doubts the being will be back in town any time soon.

********

“...has he left yet?” A ghostly head pops through the front door.

“Yes; looks like he’s headed back into town.”

“... Just, wow.” Frisk murmurs, flopping back onto the couch. “Crazy bastard’s been following us all day.”

“I think you scared him.”

“Good. I was going for creepy hellspawn, think it worked?”

“Yes. And I would know.”

“Of course you would.”


End file.
